Master Skylark Part 37

"Everybody loves my father," said Cicely, smiling and nodding again.

Master Jonson put his arm around the back of her chair, and she leaned her head upon it.

"Carew said that he had marked upon the bags which were within the panel the names of the persons to whom they were to go, and had me swear, upon my faith as a Christian man, that I would see them safely delivered according to his wish. This being done, and the end come, he kissed me on both cheeks, and standing bravely up, spoke to them all, saying that for a man such as he had been it was easier to end even so than to go on. I never saw him again."

The great writer of plays paused a moment, and his lips moved as if he were saying a prayer. Master Burbage crossed himself.

"The bags were found within the wall, as he had said, and were sealed by Ben Jonson and myself until we should find the legatees--for they had disappeared as utterly as if the earth had gaped and swallowed them.

But, by the Father's grace, we have found them safe and sound at last; and all's well that ends well!"

Here he turned the buckskin bags around.

On one, in Master Carew's school-boy scrawl, was printed, "For myne Onelie Beeloved Doghter, Cicely Carew"; on the other, "For Nicholas Attewode, alias Mastre Skie-lark, whom I, Gaston Carew, Player, Stole Away from Stratford Toune, Anno Domini 1596."

Nick stared; Cicely clapped her hands; and Simon Attwood sat down dizzily.

"There," said Master Shakspere, pointing to the second bag, "are one hundred and fifty gold rose-n.o.bles. In the other just three hundred more. Neighbor Attwood, we shall have no paupers here."

Everybody laughed then and clapped their hands, and the London players gave a rousing cheer. Master Ben Jonson's shout might have been heard in Market Square.

At this tremendous uproar the servants peeped at the doors and windows; and Tom Boteler, peering in from the b.u.t.tery hall, and seeing the two round money-bags plumping on the table, crept away with such a look of amazement upon his face that Mollikins, the scullery-maid, thought he had seen a ghost, and fled precipitately into the pantry.

"And what's more, Neighbor Tanner," said Master Richard Burbage, "had Carew's daughter not sixpence to her name, we vagabond players, as ye have had the scanty grace to dub us, would have cared for her for the honour of the craft, and reared her gently in some quiet place where there never falls even the shadow of such evil things as have been the end of many a right good fellow beside old Kit Marlowe and Gaston Carew."

"And to that end, Neighbor Attwood," Master Shakspere added, "we have, through my young Lord Hunsdon, who has just been made State Chamberlain, Her Majesty's gracious permission to hold this money in trust for the little maid as guardians under the law."

Cicely stared around perplexed. "Won't Nick be there?" she asked. "Why, then I will not go--they shall not take thee from me, Nick!" and she threw her arms around him. "I'm going to stay with thee till daddy comes, and be thine own sister forever."

Master Jonson laughed gently, not his usual roaring laugh, but one that was as tender as his own bluff heart. "Why, good enough, good enough!

The woman who mothered a lad like Master Skylark here is surely fit to rear the little maid."

The London players thumped the table. "Why, 'tis the very trick," said Hemynge. "Marry, this is better than a play."

"It is indeed," quoth Condell. "See the plot come out!"

"Thou'lt do it, Attwood--why, of course thou'lt do it," said Master Shakspere. "'Tis an excellent good plan. These funds we hold in trust will keep thee easy-minded, and warrant thee in doing well by both our little folks. And what's more," he cried, for the thought had just come in his head, "I have ever heard thee called an honest man; hard, indeed, perhaps too hard, but honest as the day is long. Now I need a tenant for this New Place of mine--some married man with a good housewife, and children to be delving in the posy-beds outside. What sayst thou, Simon Attwood? They tell me thy 'prentice, Job Hortop, is to marry in July--he'll take thine old house at a fair rental. Why, here, Neighbor Attwood, thou toil-worn, time-damaged tanner, bless thy hard old heart, man, come, be at ease--thou hast ground thy soul out long enough! Come, take me at mine offer--be my fellow. The rent shall trickle off thy finger-tips as easily as water off a duck's back!"

Simon Attwood arose from the chair where he had been sitting. There was a bewildered look upon his face, and he was twisting his h.o.r.n.y fingers together until the knuckles were white. His lips parted as if to speak, but he only swallowed very hard once or twice instead, and looked around at them all. "Why, sir," he said at length, looking at Master Shakspere, "why, sirs, all of ye--I ha' been a hard man, and summat of a fool, sirs, ay, sirs, a very fool. I ha' misthought and miscalled ye foully many a time, and many a time. G.o.d knows I be sorry for it from the bottom of my heart!" And with that he sat down and buried his face in his arms among the dishes on the buffet.

"Nay, Simon Attwood," said Master Shakspere, going to his side and putting his hand upon the tanner's shoulder, "thou hast only been mistaken, that is all. Come, sit thee up. To see thyself mistaken is but to be the wiser. Why, never the wisest man but saw himself a fool a thousand times. Come, I have mistaken thee more than thou hast me; for, on my word, I thought thou hadst no heart at all--and that is far worse than having one which has but gone astray. Come, Neighbor Attwood, sit thee up and eat with us."

"Nay, I'll go home," said the tanner, turning his face away that they might not see his tears. "I be a spoil-sport and a mar-feast here."

"Why, by Jupiter, man!" cried Master Jonson, bringing his fist down upon the board with a thump that made the spoons all clink, "thou art the very merry-maker of the feast. A full heart's better than a surfeit any day. Don't let him go, Will--this sort of thing doth make the whole world kin! Come, Master Attwood, sit thee down, and make thyself at home. 'Tis not my house, but 'tis my friend's, and so 'tis all the same in the Lowlands. Be free of us and welcome."

"I thank ye, sirs," said the tanner, slowly, turning to the table with rough dignity. "Ye ha' been good to my boy. I'll ne'er forget ye while I live. Oh, sirs, there be kind hearts in the world that I had na dreamed of. But, masters, I ha' said my say, and know na more. Your pleasure wunnot be my pleasure, sirs, for I be only a common man. I will go home to my wife. There be things to say before my boy comes home; and I ha'

muckle need to tell her that I love her--I ha' na done so these many years."

"Why, Neighbor Tanner," cried Master Jonson, with flushing cheeks, "thou art a right good fellow! And here was I, no later than this morning, red-hot to spit thee upon my bilbo like a Michaelmas goose!" He laughed a boyish laugh that did one's heart good to hear.

"Ay," said Master Shakspere, smiling, as he and Simon Attwood looked into each other's eyes. "Come, neighbor, I know thou art my man--so do not go until thou drinkest one good toast with us, for we are all good friends and true from this day forth. Come, Ben, a toast to fit the cue."

"Why, then," replied Master Jonson, in a good round voice, rising in his place, "_here's to all kind hearts!_"

"Wherever they may be!" said Master Shakspere, softly. "It is a good toast, and we will all drink it together."

And so they did. And Simon Attwood went away with a warmth and a tingling in his heart he had never known before.

"Margaret," said he, coming quickly in at the door, as she went silently about the house with a heavy heart preparing the supper, "Margaret."

She dropped the platter upon the board, and came to him hurriedly, fearing evil tidings.

He took her by the hands. This, even more than his unusual manner, alarmed her. "Why, Simon," she cried, "what is it? What has come over thee?"

"Nought," he replied, looking down at her, his hard face quivering; "but I love thee, Margaret."

"Simon, what dost thou mean?" faltered Mistress Attwood, her heart going down like lead.

"Nought, sweetheart--but that I love thee, Margaret, and that our lad is coming home!"

Her heart seemed to stop beating.

"Margaret," said he, huskily, "I do love thee, la.s.s. Is it too late to tell thee so?"

"Nay, Simon," answered his wife, simply, "'tis never too late to mend."

And with that she laughed--but in the middle of her laughing a tear ran down her cheek.

FROM the windows of the New Place there came a great sound of men singing together, and this was the quaint old song they sang:

"Then here's a health to all kind hearts Wherever they may be; For kindly hearts make but one kin Of all humanity.

"And here's a rouse to all kind hearts Wherever they be found; For it is the throb of kindred hearts Doth make the world go round!"

"Why, Will," said Master Burbage, slowly setting down his gla.s.s, "'tis altogether a midsummer night's dream."

"So it is, d.i.c.k," answered Master Shakspere, with a smile, and a far-away look in his eyes. "Come, Nicholas, wilt thou not sing for us just the last few little lines of 'When Thou Wakest,' out of the play?"

Then Nick stood up quietly, for they all were his good friends there, and Master Drayton held his hand while he sang:

"Every man shall take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill, Nought shall go ill, The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well!"

They were very still for a little while after he had done, and the setting sun shone in at the windows across the table. Then Master Shakspere said gently, "It is a good place to end."

"Ay," said Master Jonson, "it is."

So they all got up softly and went out into the garden, where there were seats under the trees among the rose-bushes, and talked quietly among themselves, saying not much, yet meaning a great deal.

But Nick and Cicely said "Good-night, sirs," to them all, and bowed; and Master Shakspere himself let them out at the gate, the others shaking Nick by the hand with many kind wishes, and throwing kisses to Cicely until they went out of sight around the chapel corner.